


Fireproof

by Giada Luna (GiadaLuna)



Category: Miraculous Ladybug
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe - Historical, Historical, Oneshot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-12
Updated: 2016-05-12
Packaged: 2018-06-07 23:19:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,635
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6829399
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GiadaLuna/pseuds/Giada%20Luna
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jeanne d'Arc has been captured, and will be put to death tomorrow. Her sole comfort is that Tikki got away.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fireproof

**Author's Note:**

> Thomas Astruc posted a picture of past Ladybugs - one of whom was Jeanne d'Arc/Joan of Arc. This oneshot was inspired by that drawing.
> 
> https://twitter.com/Thomas_Astruc/status/722401644454027264

* * *

**Fireproof**

* * *

“They’re coming for you tomorrow, you know.”

She was sitting on the floor of her cell, her back against the damp, musty wall. The chains at her wrists and ankles were thick and far heavier than one might have thought necessary to restrain one ninteteen-year-old peasant girl.

Assuming, of course, that girl hadn’t, until recently, been leading an army.

She didn’t give the guard the satisfaction of a reply, and ignored him as he jeered at her.

“You know what I heard?” he bent his face closer to the cell bars. “They are going to burn you at the stake, and then burn you twice more. Gonna make sure there’s no doubt that you’re dead, and no relics can be found. After that, your ashes will be tossed in the river. And that,” he sneered venomously, “will be the fate of Jeanne d’Arc.”

She had no reply to give, so she gave none.

Her tormenter laughed he walked away, becoming one more twisted shadow in the dim, torchlit halls.

She swallowed her tears and anger and fear, and closed her eyes.

Tommorrow, she was to die.

The countless hours of interrogation, trials, and torture had taken their toll on her. The original seventy counts of heresy of which she had been accused had been whittled down to twelve.

Among them, were charges for wearing men’s clothes.

In the dank, dark cell, she had to give a rusty bark of laughter.

“Cross dressing,” Jeanne muttered to herself. “Everything I’ve done and the only charge they can really prove is cross dressing.”

She shifted, and the heavy chains clunked dully.

She sighed.

She missed Tikki.

Not only because if Tikki were here, she could rid herself of these chains with less than a thought, but because she missed her wide-eyed kindness.

“I hope you are safe,” she whispered. “I hope you can forgive me.”

Jeanne crossed her arms on her knees and rested her head between them.

That fateful day she was finally captured played out behind her eyelids. She had known, even as her transformation was ending, that would be captured before she could reach safety. Mere seconds before the last spot disappeared, she turned to her squire, and, with a resigned nod, bowed her head. He removed her miraculous, and Tikki fell out of the earrings and into Jeanne’s hands.

She kissed the Kwami fondly.

“Rest,” she’d said, tears glistening in her eyes. “And… thank you for everything.”

Tikki had been too tired to protest, and she gently placed her in a saddle bag with food, and cinched it tight. She could hear Tikki gasp, even as she swallowed tears of her own.

“ _When someone removes the miraculous, and you do not wish it, I will not be forced to return_ ,” the kwami had explained.

In her mind’s eye, Jeanne could still see the horse she’d tied the saddle bag to, and then sent running from the battle field.

“It was the only way,” she whispered in her cell.  “More than the miraculous…I had to keep you safe.”

All these months later, and she still felt naked without their familiar weight at her ears, but she hoped that Tikki was alright.

“Get them to someone new,” she whispered. “Someone stronger than me.”

* * *

The crowd had gathered to see her execution. She refused to let them see fear in her eyes, and walked calmly to her place of death.

Her charges were read aloud, and she was formally condemned to die.

Head held, high, she did not fight when they tied her to the stake.

The brutish guard was rougher than he needed to be, but she did not break his stare for even an instant.

"Amateur," a voice scoffed behind her. "You're making a mess of things," The executioner shoved him away. "Go make sure they are ready with the fire."

The guard gave her a last sneer, but she did no more than clench her jaw and breathe deeply.

The executioner shook his head and returned to his task of checked her ropes, and binding her wrists.

“Have faith, my lady,” his voice was a sudden and sure murmur in her ear. “All is not lost.”

As suddenly as he had been in her ear, he was gone, having stepped away, clearly satisfied with her bindings. She could make nothing out of his features, as they were will concealed by his dark hood.

The executioner stood at the ready, awaiting the command to light the flames.

Jeanne steeled herself against all fear. She was tired and malnourished and frail, but she refused to appear weak before either her people or her enemies.

She was certain her captivity had addled her mind, for on the breeze she heard the sound of music – of a reed flute. Seconds later, she saw the flames lick at the wood at her feet, but she felt no heat.

Suddenly, the flames roared, and she felt the ropes at her wrist slacken. She would have fallen to the ground, but a pair of strong arms caught her.

“Don’t touch the illusion,” he warned, and that was the last thing she heard before the world went black.

* * *

Jeanne wasn’t certain if she had died, or if she was still tied to the stake and hallucinating.

She fought to open her eyes – to do anything other than lie in the blackness.

“She is awake!” a small voice gasped, and Jeanne felt gratitude well in her heart, granting her the strength to open her eyes.

“T…Tikki,” she harshed out. “Is that you.??”

“Jeanne!” the small kwami zipped over and hugged her cheek tightly. “I was so afraid we had lost you!”

“Well that shows how much faith you have in your friends,” another voice sniffed. “Just for that, I’m not sharing any of my Cambert!”

“Here,” a familiar voice said kindly. “Let me help you.” A strong pair of arms helped lift her to a seated position. “And don’t mind Plagg,” the voice continued. “He’s always like that.”

She turned to find him watching her closely. He had to be about her age, but she didn't know the green eyes or blonde hair, or gentle smile. She did, however, recognize the black hooded cape around his shoulders.

“The executioner,” she breathed.

“Well, technically the executioner is somewhere drunk off of his barstool in a nearby village,” he rubbed the back of his neck. “I was just a stand in.”

“Are you alright?” a third voice asked, concerned.

Jeanne stared up at the approaching girl who looked as if she were dressed as …

“A fox?” she asked, confused.

“Glad you made it back,” the boy in black said easily. “No problems?”

“Of course not,” the girl scoffed as she detransformed. “Have I ever failed before?”

“What of the body?” he pressed.

“Please,” she waved off his concerns. “This is a country at war. How hard do you think it was to plant a skeleton in with the wood? And it isn’t like someone would recognize her bones from anyone else’s.”

Jeanne looked between Tikki, and the others.

“You’re… you’re miraculous holders,” she said weakly.

“Quick, isn’t she?” the fox-girl quirked an eyebrow.

“In all fairness, she’s had a rough day,” the boy countered, adjusting his hold across her shoulders to hand her a canteen. “Drink up,” he said kindly. “Think you can eat something?”

“You can’t have my cheese!” Plagg called over his shoulder.

“No one wants your smelly cheese, Plagg,” the fox girl rolled her eyes and scooped up a bag, producing a loaf of bread. She knelt next to the still-confused Jeanne.

“We have to leave here in the morning,” she said, breaking the bread and handing her a piece. “All of us. But you can’t go around as Jeanne d’Arc.”

“Why… where are we going?” she asked.

“Well the why part is easy,” the girl snorted. “You’re supposed to be dead.”

“But we’re pawsitively thrilled that you aren’t,” the boy quipped.

“Adrien, so help me, I’ll find that frying pan.”

“Relax, Alya,” he waved her away. “Go find Nino, and have him return to camp for the night. No one will find us here.”

“You need a new name,” she stood, dusting the crumbs off of herself. “Like I said, we can’t go around calling you by the name of the girl that supposedly died a few hours ago, and we didn’t spend the last two months planning to rescue you just to get caught now.”

“Why are you doing this?” Jeanne asked on a whisper.

“Because we’re needed,” Adrien met her with kind, green eyes. “You’ve done all you can for this struggle, and you did everything you could to make sure that your kwami stayed safe. Now,” he put a strong hand on her shoulder, “we’re going to help you.”

“But why?” she asked.

“Well, now we’re family,’ he shrugged. “And Alya’s right, we can’t call you by your real name– so what are we going to call you?”

Jeanne shook her head.

Adrien thought about it for a while. “How about…. Marinette?” he suggested.

“Marinette,” she rolled the name around her mouth. “Not bad – where’s it from?”

“Dunno,” he shrugged again and offered her a bright smile. “Just came to me!”

“I like it,” Jeanne smiled.

“Me, too,” Tikki chirped happily. “It suits you.”

“Then Marinette it is,” Jeanne smiled wearily as her kwami snuggled her cheek.

“You’ll need these,” Adrien held out her miraculous to her. She took them gratefully and put them back where they belonged.

“Much better,” he grinned. “Now eat something and then get some rest,” he said kindly. “In the morning, we ride.”

"Ride?" she asked. "Where to?"

"Where else, my lady?" his grin was pointed and slow. "To the next adventure."

Jeanne held Tikki close, and smiled.

"Lucky me."

 

**Author's Note:**

> *Jeanne/Joan was noted as being extremely lucky in battle. Her remains were in fact burned twice and scattered into the Seine, to keep anyone from securing a relic. One of the heresy charges was indeed crossdressing, as she dressed like a man in battle. She was posthumously cleared of all charges.


End file.
